Having been given this book a few weeks ago by a friend I did not stop reading it over and over until I gave my copy away drunk in the Golden Heart last week. This was good. Not only did I need to stop obsessing about this thing, but also the man I gave it to will have his life irrevocably altered for the better by the dreamy, hallucinatory beauty within the already battered dark blue paperback.

Like me, he will find himself walking for a month alone, in the twilight of Harsent’s precise, almost tangibly fragile Garden Sequence. He will drink beer and fuck to the recipe in Spatchcock. He will rip him off in his own writing. He will tell everybody about the poems and give the book away. He will think about blood and night and nature as a seductive nightmare detective narrative.
The night I gave the book away I fell asleep listening to a radio play version of Raymond Chandler’s Lady In The Lake. I woke up throughout the night, restless, and dreaming of disappearing.